


Wasteland Perspectives

by CalliopeSpeaks88



Series: Future Imperfect [1]
Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Multi, Romance, Science Fiction, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalliopeSpeaks88/pseuds/CalliopeSpeaks88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles set in the Fallout 3 universe. The premise being, the events of the story are told through various character view points. Mainly a female Lone Wanderer tale though. Will feature female Lone Wanderer and Butch later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Just Gemma

**Author's Note:**

> As a reminder, I am not the owner or creator of the Fallout 3 universe. I did not create the characters, story or lush landscape. Fallout 3 belongs to Bethesda Softworks. Furthermore, Fallout 3 was and is a sequel to Interplay's Fallout 1 and 2 games. Any references I might make to those games are property of Interplay. This is part I in a series.

When I left the vault, I told myself that I had to do it. For necessity's sake; for survival. If I'd stayed it would have meant torture, maybe even death. I doubt dear old dad even considered such a fate for me. He probably thought the Overseer would simply question me, perhaps give me some ridiculous curfew or something as punishment for his departure. Lights out at seven pm; constant supervision until the Overseer felt I wasn't a "threat." None of this happened though. Instead, our ass of a leader lost his mind.

That crazed fanatic believed my father had fled to start a rebellion. Since nobody but myself remained, it was decided that I should be punished for dad's supposed crimes. Brilliant logic that. He also brutally murdered Jonas my father's lab assistant and close family friend. A man I admired; someone I looked up to. Without warning, sometimes, images of Jonas's broken body assault my vision. I can see him splayed about at odd angles on the floor, his right eyeball drooping out of its socket. His elegant mind splattered like paint about the walls. . . .

All the handy work of our security team. Vault residents sworn to uphold the law. Men and women reduced to savages simply because the puppet master pulling the strings began to condone violence. Apparently, thinking for yourself, and questioning the regime isn't anything our law enforcement felt the need to do. They, along with the Overseer, care only for submission.

In true depraved style, the Overseer even brutalized his own daughter, Amata. My best friend since childhood beaten for what? So he could learn of my whereabouts? To slap her around until she couldn't take anymore? To force her to concoct some lie about me? Not even our resident bully Butch DeLoria would've sunk so low. Really, bad Butch is a pussycat compared to the Overseer, and the Overseer is a lovable shmuck compared to half the people I've encountered since that night.

The Capital Wasteland is my home now. The heat, sun, and the stench of a radiated Virginia have become my new norm. It's a harsh place to eke out any kind of existence. It's like everyone wants a piece of you; nothing is for free. Food, water, supplies, information, and friendship come at a price. The mentality of the wastes is, "I'll scratch your back if (and only if) you'll scratch mine." I'm outside in no man's land with fuck all hope and even fewer caps.

Most days I wish I didn't have a pulse. There's no place for me anywhere. No safe-haven. The vault was insufferable and the wastes are unhospitable. The happy endings I once imagined as a girl have died. All turned to ash the moment civilization got nuked, long before I had ever dreamed them. In truth, I'm scared almost ninety-nine percent of the time. Scared of the uncertainties; scared of my own insignificance. I mean, I'm only one person dammit. A cog amongst other cogs. An orphan looking for her father. A newly minted child of the wastes, no, hero of the wastes.

Thanks to that damn disc jockey Three Dog, people are hailing me as some kind of savior. A do-gooder. A saint. I'm none of these things. I'm simply doing what I have to do. I'm attempting to make sense of the wastes as well as pops' disappearing act. Nothing else. All I care about is finding answers. What I don't need is anymore pressure, like Joe Blow settler viewing me as some sort of heroine.

Sure, dad might say I'm following my conscious. That I'm doing what I inherently feel is right in brutal situations (and believe me, I've faced some brutality out here). It's just. . . I don't believe in his words anymore. If anything, I think dad would be disappointed in me. I'm all jagged lines and unforgiving angles; I'm not the daughter he once knew. I'm no longer that soft rosebud he'd tend to. His little girl is more like a pebble in your shoe, constantly needling your skin as you try to walk past my presence. What I am is a careening force destined for oblivion: A lone wanderer. An imperfect child, not some agent of the"greater good."

I am nobody's martyr. I will not become anyone's goddamn deity made flesh either. I'm human; I'm fallible. But, mostly, I'm just a nineteen year old girl. Green. Scared. Looking for hope in a hopeless place. That's it. That's all I am. I'm a wide-eyed nosebleed clinging to the remainder of her sanity in an over sized Tunnel Snake jacket. My name is Gemma, and I've left the vault because I wanted to. I'm searching for my father because I need to. I live for myself. I survive for myself. I make my own path, follow the beat of my own drum because I am free to do so. I am no man's urban defender. I am just Gemma, and I walk alone.


	2. Living On a Prayer

It's so hot out here. Wish the sun would just quit for the day. I'd prefer the crisp bite of nightfall to this sweltering desert. I can almost feel myself melting; each step of mine leaving a dense pool of sweat in its wake. This damn filthy perspiration gathers in pools under my armpits, circling painfully around my thighs. I have a heat rash, making my bikini line throb in dull irritation. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.

If only there were an easier way to traverse these damn wastes than by walking. I can barely sense anything other than screaming muscles anymore. I've also run low on supplies, thanks to my inexperience in survival training. I thirst too. Badly. I have no water whatsoever. None. Nadda. Ran out of that sweet elixir last night. I swear, my throat has become a dried out fossil. The taste buds on my tongue fair no better. They're shrunken in, withered and acrid. I can't even spit.

A part of me is tempted to cannonball into the murky ripples of the Potomac. Say fuck it all to sense and propriety, so I can guzzle needed water. Poisoned radiated water, sure, but water nonetheless. Yeah, I'd die, agonizingly too. Radiation poisoning is a terrible way to meet your end. Still, I would be contented. I'd go with a belly full of fluids and a smile upon my face.

Balls. But, I do tire of this endless walking. Why am I even doing this anyway? I'm no adventurer. (I'm hardly qualified to be called a wanderer). Perfection to me, is the stillness of solitude paired with a subdued evening of reading in bed. What was dad thinking coming out here! He had to have known Alphonse was going to blow a Goddamn gasket when he deserted the vault. I mean, Jesus Christ dad! The Overseer was, is and forever will be a deranged lunatic. Of course Alphie would target me after you left. That would be the only logical recourse for him. He had to eliminate his imaginary rebellion, which included me.

This lifestyle, this harried existence doesn't suit me. I know I didn't yearn for a vault dweller's way of living, but I sure as shit didn't ask to be a wastelander either. Every day among these elements is a day of risk, struggle and possible death. Violence reigns supreme here, while peace is a word barely spoken or known by the haggard populace. I resent this new atmosphere. I loathe the strife it claps around my wrists like wrought iron shackles. I despise myself too, for I am becoming no better than anybody else. I am becoming more and more a slave to the rat race.

Absently, I flick away at an imaginary bug. I tiredly gather up my hair into a quick ponytail, relishing the exposure of my neck. With muscles throbbing, I begin to worry my lower lip as I make my way into the downtown area. I can't seem to remember how long I've been living outside 101. What's worse, I can't even recall how long it's been since I've last seen my dad. With all this damn chaos surrounding me, dates have become insignificant. At least I now knew where pop had run off to. There was at least that. Such knowledge had to count for something, right? Right?

Thanks to that Irish prick Moriarty, it was revealed that dad-o was determined to visit Three Dog, the Capital Wasteland's most celebrated radio personality. Yes, I did have to help the bastard to get this intel, but I think the grunt work worth it. I finally knew the whereabouts of my father. Did I like harassing Silver for the creep? No. Yet, it had to be done. I couldn't afford Moriarty's information on my own. Silver may be down 100 caps in currency now, but that setback is a small price to pay in exchange for one's freedom. If the junkie had remained in Colin's debt, who knows what he would have done to her. I mean, the man is a genuine creep. I've even been told he pees in his own bar's still. Blech.

I choke out of my reverie. It's suddenly getting hard to breathe, which is causing me to cough like a well seasoned smoker. Lack of food, water and rest can do that to a person. I'm lightheaded, nauseous. Can't seem to retain any air within my lungs. The organs feel constricted, stiffening with each stiff stride I take. I need water. Need it like Wally Mack needs a brain. I'm shaking. Shuddering. At this rate, I'll pass out before the hour's up. Damn my stubbornness! I should've listened to Moria and stocked up on necessities, instead of following dad without so little preparation. Fuck me sidewise, but I am sure paying for my ignorance now. Paying for it in spades.

"Lord," I croak, " If you can hear me, please send a merchant my way. Any merchant. Doesn't matter if he specializes in junk, oddities or spoiled brahmin meat. Where there is people there is water. Please, please do this for me. Please. Grace me with a miracle." Silently, I promised to stop stealing from Jericho and Moriarty. I would no more take what wasn't mine, nor would I justify said acts because the men I robbed were rotten characters. Blindly, I went onto whisper my entreaties in hushed tones. Then I hit a jagged rock. . . .

And I'm ass-over-teakettle. Knees scrapped badly; flesh raw and wincing. Tentatively, I try to stand, cautiously applying pressure to my right foot and then my left. I bite back a squeal, finding that my left ankle cannot withstand any pressure. I grimace, knowing I've twisted the limb. Okay, it's official, God isn't answering any of my calls today. Just peachy. Fucking peachy. I curse animatedly and without abandon, hating my ability trip over anything and everything I come across. Look at me! I transformed an already crappy situation into an impossible one. Great. Abso-fucking-lutely great.

Agitatedly, I tear a piece of my t-shirt, placing the fabric inside my mouth. As much as I'd like to rest here, I'm a sitting target. Anyone can see me. With no other choice available, I force myself to keep moving. Shelter has to be found, and, frankly, the sooner it's claimed, the sooner I can elevate my throbbing ankle. Alrighty, Gemma. Okay. You can do this. You. Can. Do. This. Just focus on the progress you're making. Take each step as it comes. Tune out the jolting sting of your wound. That's it. Good. Almost there. . .almost to that empty RV. Almost. . . . There! Made it.

I cry then. Relief sweeping over me, as I relax each exhausted limb. I lay in the rusted hull of my newly discovered camper until I sizzle in the stench and stink and ache and wetness of myself. I curl up into the fetal position to sleep. Despair beginning to envelope me. This delapitated place of refuge could very well be my last residence. I am lame, dehydrated, as well as starving. The odds are not in my favor. In the distance, voices of varying tempos start to grow near. Raiders. I am positive of it. As slowly as I can, I peek out a window, spying five men with wicked tattoos, weapons and purified water. I have to reach them! But, how can I? How?

Sighing, I decide to contemplate my options. Option 1.) I could limp towards them, barely able to move, thusly ensuring my demise (or worse yet, servitude as some sociopath's sex toy). Or, Option 2.) I could continue rotting away silently, hoping I will not be detected by said neighboring criminals. Yeah, both choices equally sucked. Both left me vulnerable as well as easy prey. I was screwed. Royally screwed.

Wink. Wink. A flash of light hit me square in the face. Wink. Wink. There it was again, bombarding my vision. Wink. Wink. Wink. Where was it coming from? Rolling over onto my stomach, I blindly crawl around the tight confines of the RV. Eureka! I touch metal. Grinning wildly, I wrap fingers around the familiar hilt of a syringe. I've found a stimpack. An actual stimpack. This, this gives me the edge I need. This can save me from ruin.

Without a moment's hesitation, I plunge the needle deep into the swollen skin of my ankle. A rush of warmth tingles the area, absorbing any infection instantaneously. Swiftly, the pain is absorbed too. Luck, sheer luck has offered me my salvation. I had received my miracle, giving me the strength to struggle on.

Deftly, I load fresh bullets into my shotgun, while making sure the katana I've procured is firmly secured around my hip bones. Feeling reassured, I begin to stalk the bullshitting cajolers outside my hideout. No courage seeps into my heart at what I am about to do, only the rapid pounding of adrenaline moves me. I inch closer to the laughter before me, ignoring any second thoughts about murder. These were raiders; they were my enemy.

With a mission to complete, I fire my first shot. It bursts a bearded man's head in two. I fire my next bullets, a flurry of responding fire ricocheting past me. I take shelter behind a boulder. I shoot. Another buckles, then falls. I keep at it, until only one remains. He's cowering, pleading for forgiveness. I almost let him live, but when my back is turned he tackles me. I reach for Ronin, my sword quickly. The belly of Jacob (or was it Jackson) is soon slashed. Innards seep out, he wails. I finish him without any hesitation, so as to not prolong his suffering.

Alone, I begin to survey the camp sight. I see packs of water bottles, rations and medical supplies. I lunge for them. Eagerly, I drink two bottles of fresh water. Sun still high, I pour a third over my head. I allow the cooling tendrils to soothe my sunburned skin. Everything else I pack away to reserve for later. I strip one corpse loose of his armor, exchanging meager clothing for mercenary duds. Huffing and puffing, I then place each deceased man back into the camper. My conscious won't allow me to leave them as they are. This is my apology to their broken forms; this is my version of a gravesite.

Sun sinking close to the mountains, I once more head in the direction of Galaxy News Radio. It's time I continued my lonely travels, ready to wander closer to my destiny. Closer to hope. Closer to home. Closer to a father I have never truly known. Closer to oblivion.


	3. Gone, Baby, Gone

Gone. Absent. Won't see that damn smirk of hers no more. Or the shimmer of that ghost girl face, slate colored eyes glued onto me in dissatisfaction. I had a way with Gemma that no other in this shit soaked hole had: I made her react. Made her tighten her fists, swinging punches. Made those cheeks of hers flush in anger and embarrassment. Made her vulnerable. Only me, the Butch Man did that. No one else. No one.

Lil' gal is out raisin' some bonafied hell now, I'm sure of it. Sure as sin. I can feel her making waves out there. Wish that was what I was doin'. I'm not though. Didn't have the courage to follow Gem out those stupid vault doors. I'm still here, trapped. A loser in a jumpsuit. Gem, well, she's the one truly living now. The damn mouse bested me again.

Ya know, I can still see her running after her dad in frantic movements. She's gliding away from me, further and further until she's out of sight. Never once did she take one backwards glance my way. It stung a bit. Fuck if I know why. It's not as if she and I were ever friends or nothin'. We just had an understanding. There was this unspoken thing between us. Camaraderie maybe. A fellowship in our mutual dislike for the other. Well, more like her plain dislike for me. I didn't like the nosebleed at first, but, yeah, she grew on me after awhile.

The bookworm wasn't afraid to be her own Goddamn person. Didn't hide behind any red lipstick or other makeup to get a fella's attention. She didn't play around like that, not like she had to neither. She was pretty in that natural way that slowly drew you in. Complexion like creamy white milk, and, sure, I paid attention to her curves. She was tall and voluptuous compared to the others. Couldn't be helped. I liked the look of her.

Also liked how she never hid her smarts for nobody. Yeah, it was sometimes annoying how she knew every Goddamn answer teach used to ask us, but it was also nice. Refreshing. All the other girls, they slunk down in their seats. Even her friend Amata hid. All of 'em too freakin' shy to say nothin'. Nosebleed, well, she said a lot. Gave Wally Mack the one fingered salute once for giving her a hard time mid-sentence. It was priceless! I laughed 'till my sides ached. That's when I wanted to get closer to her. Just get to know her better.

At least I gave Gem my Tunnel Snake jacket before she hightailed it outta here. Couldn't just leave her empty handed, especially since she saved my ma and all. It's pretty fuckin' shitty knowin' I couldn't rescue my own ma from radroaches. (It's even shittier knowin' I looked like a damn pussy in front of Gemma). Those freak ass bugs never did sit well with me. Sonofabitch! My face is still beat red in shame even now just thinkin' about it.

Fuck me! I just had to fucking stand there, cowering, as she shot those scurrying dick sticks dead. Big bad Butch, Leader of the Tunnel Snakes, caught bawling his eyes out 'cause he was scared of a few bugs. Yeah, Ms. Mighty Mouse must've thought that was rich. Real rich. Doubt Gemma doesn't remember that without burstin' out laughing. Fuck.

I wonder what she's thinkin' about right this second? Like, what's going on in Gemma's world right now? Whose she talking to? Is she trading insults with some new guy, and, if so, does this dude admire her smooth delivery at the many varied ways she can degrade your manhood? And do I ever cross her mind? When she slips on my jacket, does the feel of the leather against her flesh unlock any nostalgia for the old days? Does she catch herself missin' our banter? 'Cause I do. More than I think I fuckin' should. More than what's right for a bachelor like me.

I mean, it's not like I don't got girls. I got girls. I could be with one right now, like Rhonda if I got the urge to. Just sneak past security, knock on her door and she'd eagerly wet my whistle. No questions asked. Still. . .I don't have a mind to do none of that stuff. Not like I used to. Boning Rhonda holds no pleasure for me and probably won't. I get no excitement from touching her anymore. Gem on the other hand. . I can't stop thinking about her. And, it's not like the sexy stuff either. I find myself remembering the way she'd hum while working in the clinic. The melody of some sweet song purring past her lips as she filed papers, or mended up some patient of hers. I go and think about the every day things I never used to think about.

Damn, whiskey's gone. Fuck. I need more. I'm runnin' dangerously low on booze lately. Too low for comfort. Heh. Ironic, isn't it? I'm becoming more like ma each lame ass day I'm stuck here. All the damn woman does is drown her sorrows in hooch. Been pulling that crap since dad ran out on us. Years later, and what is her son doing? The same jackass thing. I'm drinkin' away this ache I got for a gal I alienated; a gal I never once treated right.

Goddammit! What the hell am I supposed to do now, huh? Nothin's been the same since you left Nosebleed. I miss you Casper girl. Miss not being near you. Miss not hearing the soft lilt of your voice. Miss the fighting and the cursing and the friction of you. Miss it all. Hell, it's almost like I miss ya like you was my steady. . . .

If only I was out there with you, the two of us taking on the wastes together. We'd be free to be whatever we wanted. Whoever we wanted. I'd have your back Gem. Switchblade ready, 'cause Tunnel Snakes never say die. We'd make any dumbass punk with a death wish fear our shadows. And I'd sure as fuck make sure you was safe. Always safe. Always.

Shit. But, I ain't with ya, am I? I'm alone. You've run out of 101, with no goodbyes said. Just rushed outta here and out on me. You're an untouchable. Some shitty phantom, reducing me to a creep that can't shake the notion of you. I mean, fuck, I ain't felt this lousy since the first time I was called a mistake. Gotta dull this feeling. I'm all shook up. Hurtin'. Feel sick too. The bottom of my stomach is fallin' out. It's time to accept facts: There is no changin' my circumstances. Best to forget about the past. Gemma and I will never make sparks fly again. Not ever. Not for fuckin' ever and a fuckin' day. She's not coming back.

Fuckin' Gem. She's all of a sudden gone and there ain't nothin' I can do about it. Not nothin.' You know what girly? Have your fun. I'll toast your fun; I'll drink to your lousy future. Now, well, now Butchie Boy here's gonna move on, ya dig? I'm gonna forget about you girl. I swear, you're gonna disappear beneath the haze of alcohol and the mindless thump of time. Enjoy the jacket. Get buried in it for all I care. 'Cause that jacket, well, it's all that you'll have left of me. Old Butch here is spent up. I doubt I even cross your fuckin' pretty little mind no more. Nope, I doubt I do. And you know what else? I'm burnin' you straight outta mine. Goodbye lil' girl. Goodbye.


	4. Rebel Yell

I have spent the last seventy-two hours on lock down. Father says it's simply "bed rest," but I know differently. He doesn't trust me anymore. His gaze has turned glassy, absent of any lingering fondness or affection. The stilted apologies over my bruised and battered body carry no warmth either. His speech, along with the rest of him, have turned mechanical and practiced. Daddy has become barren of all emotion.

As I lay aching in bed, the empty space in my heart grows. I know, beyond any doubt, that Alphonse Almodovar is dead. Slain. Buried in the abyss of the psyche. Only the Overseer remains. This man is not my father. This man is a power hungry monster I shall never call family. He murdered my papa. Pushed daddy aside the moment James left us, ransacking all of my father's remaining sanity and goodness.

Daddy would never have hit me. Daddy would never have run Gemma out. Daddy would never have brutalized Jonas. No, my father was many things, but a psychopath was not one of them. Gem may disagree with me on this (and, honestly, who can blame her), but Gemma never met my father. She only knew of his Other; she only ever shook hands with the devil. Daddy had two personas: One, fully himself. The Other, a paranoid masochist.

This Other, also known as the Overseer, came out in moments of stress, embarrassment or duress. Luckily, I never lived with this second man. I just saw him around the vault. Caught glimpses of him whenever he interacted with my best friend and her father. I knew of him, but never knew him personally. I once overheard daddy talking to James about The Overseer personality. It was late, I had woken up from a bad dream desiring water and my father's company. I was about to enter the living room, when I overheard the sound of voices.

" I can't hide this from her much longer James." It was daddy. He was pacing back and forth, looking agitated. " Even now, I can feel him snaking inside of me. Itching to lash out at you; to call vault security. His voice is pounding like a freight train against my skull." My eyes had widened. Who was this? And inside him? What was inside him? James gestured for my father to sit. He took out a file from his briefcase and began rummaging through it. He looked somber, yet hopeful. " Alphonse, we've made great strides in our sessions. You've identified the Other personality, the one we call Overseer, and have begun the process to heal. This, in itself, is a milestone. Many people in your condition rarely make it this far."

The doctor sighed, taking a sip of gin and tonic. He said," Of course Overseer is upset with us. We are, in essence, shining a spotlight on him. He can't hide anymore; you can't hide anymore. We are piecing together forgotten memories. Things about your childhood and the loss of Maria, your wife. All painful, but necessary in order to become a whole person again."

" Your split, you see, doesn't wish to be forgotten. He is scared. Angry. I've spoken with him Alphie, in our sessions. He wants us to pay. Me to pay. Gemma to pay. He considers himself your protector, but, eventually we'll get through to him. Integration is possible. It just takes time." Integration is possible. Integration? And that's when an epiphany struck me: Papa had Dissociative Identity Disorder. It explained everything about daddy. His coldness towards Gemma, his sometimes strange over protectiveness towards me and taciturn behavior whenever he was working, whenever he was being The Overseer.

I was fifteen when I discovered this. I swore to myself I would keep my father's secret, as well as help him with this malady in any way I could. For the most part, I did that. I played peacekeeper between the Overseer and Gemma, reminded the hostile personality how great James was for the vault and kept my nose down, never participating in anything remotely rebellious. All my efforts fell apart the night James abandoned 101. Nothing I could say deterred The Overseer's blood lust and rage that evening. He hit me, beat me senseless when I tired, tried my damndest to reign his anger in. I failed however. Cost people their lives. Watched, helplessly as he tried to kill my best friend. James' leaving caused an unforgiving break, (how couldn't it?) and Alphonse Almodovar was lost.

I still don't know why Gem's dad ran from us the way he did. James didn't strike me as the type of guy to just abandon those in need. I think something from his past caught up with him. Something he had to fix. I am certain he told my father about it. A week before the incident they had shut themselves away in daddy's study for hours. I could hear raised voices and muffled pieces of conversation, but didn't believe it to be unusual. For all I knew, James was holding a therapy session for daddy. He wasn't though. He was preparing papa for his departure.

If only they both had prepared a little bit better. Made some sort of feasible contingency plan before all of this shit hit the fan. They didn't. I know they didn't. I mean, look at the damn state of things! They foolishly underestimated the Overseer, and, as a result of that, the vault has been thrown into absolute chaos. Home isn't home for the lot of us that endure. It is hell. An absolute certifiable hell. As the hours run through me like wine, I can hear screaming. Raised voices and weeping lamentations ring clear. More violence is being let loose outside the thin walls of my apartment. It makes my bones shake in shame. Makes me weep.

Jesus, things cannot end this way. Oh, Christ no! I will not let this jackal, this bastard win. The least I can do for daddy or the fallen or Gemma is to rally as many people as I can in my favor. I will regain control over this compound. I will become the new Overseer. If war is what this Overseer wants then war is what he'll get. I am going to do what Gemma would do (would insist I should do) I will fight. I am going to become a tad more mischievous now. Play the schemer, as well as the leader instead of the follower.

Yes, before the year is out the vault doors shall be opened. Trade, commerce and economy will be influx, shutting down an end to the old ways. No more will the vault's denizens bow down to the pressures of sealed steel. All crooked malicious dwellers will be exiled. The previous Overseer will be overthrown; my father will be laid to rest. He is with mama, far from the stench of this underground bunker.

Daddy, if you can hear me, know that I am no longer your little girl. I am an orphan, a parentless child who holds no blood ties. I am bound to no man and no man is bound to me. I am reborn a rebel. I am newly baptized by fire, giving me the phoenix bird's song to beat my battle drum to. I am, and forever shall be, an enemy to Vault Tech. I hope you can forgive me for this. I never was your typical teenage girl. I was quiet, meek in the sight of dangers. I never argued in fear of upsetting that secret sliver of you. However, I can be mild no longer. I must walk alone from this point on. I aim to free our neighbors. I aim to free myself.

The Overseer, your Other must fall. The body. . .it can't go on without the soul, can it? It shouldn't daddy. . .and I fix to take your body's perverse zombie's head, stick it on a platter and say, " Death to all tyrants." I love you, but you are not a part of this world any longer. The time has come for me to wage my own war. I shall make my rebel yell heard above the din and darkness of this underground refuge. Rest now. Rest in peace, for me, for us and for the sake of our home. I love you. And I promise (with everything I've got inside of me) that I will become this vault's new archetype of change. I am an Almodovar and us Almodovar's never quit, nor do we say die. We just keep on fighting the good fight. We soldier on. We conquer. We preserver. I'll preserver. I will. I will. I will. I swear to you daddy. For you, I will.


End file.
